Getting Ahead
by Vague Apparitions
Summary: Headless AU. A collection of varying oneshots surrounding the idea that Danny's got quite the head on his shoulders. Or not. Now playing: "Martyr." It wasn't wise to make enemies of ghosts; they may, someday, want revenge.
1. Ragdoll

**Disclaimer: **_I own nothing except my own words._

**Author's Notes:**_ I'm not sure who originated the headless Danny alternate universe. I know it's been floating around the Phandom on Tumblr, though. This is a series of oneshots in that AU, because I want to see how many versions of it I can come up with!_

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**"Ragdoll"  
Headless AU: Take 1**

Danny really hated when this happened.

Well, he didn't _hate_ it, _per se_; it was an annoying, but necessary, evil. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, needle in-hand, and inspected the damage. He'd ripped out a lot of stitches on the right side of his neck — so many that his head was threatening to fall onto his left shoulder completely, ripping out the remaining stitches that kept his head on. He had to be careful with how he moved, or he'd have a much more difficult time sewing himself back together.

He plunged the needle into his skin, not feeling much of anything. After his head was severed, the nerves around the cut didn't seem to sense anything anymore. Danny's needle, strung with the emerald thread he'd found in the sewing kit, quickly created a strong seam along his neck. Danny was beginning to become an experienced hand at this, which was a relief. For the first few months, Tucker had to sew Danny's head on almost every night after ghost fighting — _at least_ once. Finally, Danny had asked Tucker to just show him how to do it, and was able to make a decent, though not great, seam after a lot of practice. He was glad for the considerable improvement from his own not-so-great-but-decent stitching. Strong seams meant less repairs — and less accidental headlessness.

Still, repairs were something that occurred on a daily basis. Sometimes, Danny found himself in front of a mirror, fixing his seams, multiple times a day; it depended on how many ghosts he ended up fighting. Once or twice, he'd ripped his head completely off during a fight and, when that happened, Tucker had to stitch Danny together as if the ghost boy were a project for his sewing class.

"Hey," Tucker had said on too many occasions, much to Danny's chagrin, "at least you've got a good head on your shoulders."

And, every time, Danny had responded with, "Tucker, leave the bad puns to_ me_."

Unfortunately for Danny, most of the ghosts in the Ghost Zone found Danny's condition hilarious, especially when his head was knocked off in the middle of a fight. It had turned into something like a game, where ghosts would aim for Danny's head or neck and see how long it took for them to rip his head off. Not many managed to do it, though that never stopped any of them from trying.

Something that had evolved from the Head Game was the idea that, if Danny's head could be cut off and sewn on again, then _any_ part of his body could do the same. Ghosts went after Danny with knives and axes and swords, just to see if they could cut off something else. That's how Skulker managed to remove Danny's arm, chopping it off piece-by-piece. Technus had gotten a few fingers on the opposite hand. The finger stitches were the extremely annoying, since they ripped out the most.

After fixing his neck, Danny inspected his other seams. They stood out from his bare skin, multi-colored from several restitchings. The seams around his shoulder, elbow, and wrist were fine, but the finger stitches on the other hand were loose and tearing in some places. With a sigh, Danny began to fix them.

_So_, he thought, this _is_ _what a ragdoll feels like._


	2. Martyr

**Disclaimer:**_ I only own my own words. I own nothing else._

**Author's Notes:**_ Headless AU: take two! Warning. This one is a bit dark._

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**"Martyr"**  
**Headless AU: Take 2**

He couldn't run forever. He had made far too many enemies, and most of them had the tendency to hold grudges — grudges that could only be satisfied with sweet, terrible revenge. By nature, ghosts tended to hold grudges of that very kind; they held onto the anger and negativity in their being like a thirst, remaining and intensifying until it could be quenched. To make enemies with a ghost was a mistake.

Danny had made a very grave mistake.

He'd thought that they'd never catch up to him. He'd always gotten out of problems before and, by extension, he thought he would _always_ get out of them. He'd laughed at his enemies, made witty banter, taunted them, and beat them, not once considering that he would regret it later.

He began to regret it as he woke, after a fight, from fainting — only to find that he was behind the bars of Walker's prison. Around his wrists and ankles was the cold iron of shackles pressing into his skin, and around his mouth was a gag, keeping him from wailing. His movement was limited, for the chains holding him to the wall were short.

Many days had come and gone before they came for him; Danny couldn't be certain of how much time had passed, but he could guess. The guards took him from his place in the dank, dark cell, as if to rescue him from that place. But if that was a rescue, then it is a rescue when a lamb is ushered from a crowded, miserable pen and is given safe passage to the slaughtering block. Danny didn't know where he was going, but he felt inexplicably _afraid. _He desperately struggled against the restraints, to no each step he took, an impending sense of doom increased; he could feel it in his throat and in his chest, tight and nauseating.

Danny was led out of the prison, where a group of his enemies was assembled. Walker took precedence; after all, it was his prison. Danny stood before the warden, who pulled out a long sheet of paper from his jacket pocket; from it, Walker began to read the list of offenses. Acts viewed as selfless and heroic by humankind were read as sins. Condemnation saturated the warden's voice, and grim satisfaction was in his face. He would not perform his favorite punishment today, but would be administering it by extension, and that was enough.

The verdict: Guilty.

The punishment: Execution. Effective immediately.

There would be no mercy. Danny was barely a child; he was seventeen. It was old enough. But it was young enough for a tear to slip down the boy's face, and for him to begin shaking, petrified of the sentence to come. He tried to fight those feelings, attempting to keep his dignity; it was a fight that he nearly lost when he saw the executioner sharpening an axe.

Danny was made to ascend the stairs to the chopping block. Hundreds of eyes were fixed on him, anticipating the fate that Danny dreaded. With a sudden push from a guard, Danny was shoved to his knees, head inches above the block. He gazed down at the stone slab, looking to others as if he were deep in thought or prayer, and wondered if this medieval method of execution had been Aragon's idea. (In truth, it had, and the axe had been specifically suggested; swords cut cleanly, but axes could botch the beheading, making it all the more brutal. Danny was unaware of this.)

"Any last words?" the executioner asked, laughing. Danny was still clearly gagged and unable to speak.

Danny finally looked upward, out to the audience of ghosts. Even if he could truly have last words, he wouldn't know what to say. He told himself this, though: _Don't cry. Be strong. Come on, Fenton. Go out like a hero. You can do it._

Danny placed his head on the stone and squeezed his eyes shut, taking a deep breath, which he was certain would be his last. He knew that axe loomed over him, but he did not see it rise — nor did he see it fall, swiftly and viciously, upon his neck. It sliced through the boy's spine easily, hitting

But he did see the nauseating sight of his body, several inches away and leaking green and red from a headless neck, and the gore-stained axe, still in the executioner's hands.

_How am I still alive?_


End file.
